by Ed Teja
"Damn." It seemed the only appropriate comment.
I sipped my drink and thought through my few options. Certainly, I could sit around and wait for Walker to come back from his pleasure cruise. While the location was pleasant and there was the prospect of pretty girls arriving, it didn't seem the most profitable use of my time.
Besides, he might not come back. At least not anytime soon. Monday was a long way away and James was already a candidate for blood-pressure medications. It seemed that my other options had winnowed down to just poking my nose around.
"So, no one else might have seen anything?"
Pierre thought for a moment, and then held up a finger. "José Renaldo."
"Of course. José. Who is he?"
"He is the night guard. As he is paid to stand around watching people, and as your friend Walker would have come right past him, he might have noticed. It is more likely he saw something if Walker was escorting a pretty lady. If he was awake at the time, José Renaldo might at least be able to tell you when he left, if not where he was going. To be honest, I doubt that he knows anything useful, but he would be happy for you to ask, especially if you show your gratitude in a tangible fashion." He smiled. "We are all poor people."
I wrapped a five-dollar bill around my glass and handed it to him. "I understand."
Pierre smiled and took the glass and bill. "He comes on duty about eight in the evening."
"I'll come back later this evening and have a little chat with him then," I said, not feeling as pleased as I sounded. Although it was nice to have some kind of lead, it looked like I'd be following a cold trail with no real clues. That wasn't a fun thought, or particularly rewarding.
I was jealous of Walker. The idea of going sailing was a lot better than sitting around the bar waiting for the boat to return. I decided that if Walker didn't appear out of thin air very quickly, I'd have to hunt him down. The sea was my turf after all.
Although I hadn't been at the bar long and I was already bored and there wasn't anything to do until I talked to the guard sometime after eight. I decided to take advantage of the time that lay heavy on my hands by reacquainting myself with the city. I'd go for a long and probably meandering walk. After all, walking makes the experience more up close and personal. It isn't sailing, but then, what is?
# # #
By the time I left the marina, I was getting hungry again and grumpy on top of it. I'd arrived and gotten the lay of the land, but it wasn't promising in any way at all. Although I had some information to think about, I didn't have any real clues to mull over.
I knew that Walker had gone for a sail and hadn't said when he'd be back. That he was probably off with a woman didn't matter—or didn't seem to. If Consuela was right, his wife probably didn't know where he was, but then, if he was with another woman, that's how he'd want it.
If it hadn't been for the panic James felt over getting the papers signed, I could have just found a nice cantina, some friendly people, and waited until Monday, planning to meet him in the office or at the marina. I'm not good at waiting though, and I had promised to look around.
As I walked by stores that were mostly closed, or in the process of closing, pulling down the metal gratings that protected the glass display windows, I played tourist. I admit that I enjoyed myself looking at pretty women and endless displays of merchandise. They had thousands of things I could happily live without.
Clearly, the upscale shops targeted an affluent clientele that liked imported goods, and whose tastes ran to the latest in god-awful New York or Italian fashions. The other stores, the ones catering to the masses, were filled with shoddy, made in Taiwan, imitations of the New York and Italian junk.
Silk dresses refashioned in polyester. In this neighborhood even the poor had to suffer the slings and arrows of relatively current fashion, it seemed.
At times I enjoy window shopping. The window displays tell you a lot about how people in a culture see themselves. The best displays what is desired by the people, so you can learn a surprising variety of things staring in shop windows.
For instance, as I walked along in the pleasant fading light of the late afternoon, I learned I was being followed.
Whenever I stopped and stared, absorbing the "stuff" of the local culture, I saw the same figure reflected in the glass, standing, looking at nothing.
My shadow was unimposing. A thin man. A gringo in a suit. Granted it was a shabby suit, but still, any gringo in a suit is usually in business and has no time for following itinerant sea captains. Sailors don't wear suits, not even yachties, except at the marina on rare occasions, and often don't even own them. There is little room on a small yacht for fancy clothes (aka, anything that was not shorts and tee-shirts). Even tourists don't often wear them in a beach town. They are on vacation from their suits.
And I doubted the embassy was having me followed. Not that I thought they wouldn't follow people, but I couldn't imagine any way in which I would be of any interest. No, I doubted our embassy, or any embassy, knew or cared that I was in town, or why.
Being followed felt odd. Once I knew I was being followed, actually sure of it, it made for an interesting game. I had no reason to think the person following had any particularly sinister motive and the fact that I hadn't a clue as to why I was being stalked made me curious.
It was more than interesting... it was perverse. The way I understood the situation, unless James hadn't told me everything he knew, which I didn't think was a reasonable assumption, I was supposed to be the one doing the poking around, looking for the missing person and then twisting his arm to get his signature on the dotted line.
At least I assumed that it was a dotted line. I hadn't looked at the papers that close. But none of this suggested why anyone would even be curious about me, much less interested enough to bother following my rather aimless wandering. It wasn't even as if I had snuck around, attracting attention by being suspicious.
As far as I could tell, there was absolutely no secret about what I was up to. So being followed turned a lazy walk into a rather useless questions-with-no-answers session. After all, why would anyone beyond James care what I was up to? What did they think they might learn by watching my movements?
As far as I was concerned, the only business I was involved in that was of any of real interest was financing a cargo of wood.
I've learned that, in general, people tend to make the best decisions they can, based on the information available to them. So, spending time watching me, or worse, hiring someone to do it, meant that someone had some incorrect information about me, as the effort was profitless.
Naturally, I wanted to know what it was they thought that led them to make the effort.
In addition to being curious, I was still hungry. I turned onto Calle Bolívar (Bolivar Street) and walked to a small Italian restaurant that an expat pilot I had worked with a few years ago had recommended.
For a moment I considered, as a lark, approaching my shadow and inviting him to join me for dinner. That's exactly the kind of off-kilter thing that makes my funny bone tingle.
Only one thing stopped me, and it had nothing to do with the man following me, or even the disappearance of Clyde Walker. It had to do with the pilot who had given me the recommendation for this place.
Even though that was a few years back, this was the first time that I'd had the opportunity to try it out. Shortly after he told me about the restaurant, while he was flying tourists about the country, a fog rolled in suddenly and the friendly folks running air control in Caracas had flown him straight into the side of a mountain.
You lose friends here and there from accidents or even stupidity, and there isn't much you can do about it. Such things, unpleasant as they are, happen. What you can do, when it seems appropriate, is remember them. I felt an obligation to go inside and toast his memory with a glass of wine.
With such small gestures, we keep departed friends fresh in our lives, at least for a little
bit longer. It wasn't the kind of gesture to share with strangers, so the mysterious gringo following me, Walker and the entire damn investigation could wait while I had dinner and toasted his memory.
It was both unfortunate and typical of life that dinner turned out to be a huge disappointment. I'm not big on eating in restaurants even when the food and service are great. Sitting alone at a table isn't something I find particularly enjoyable.
This time the food was not great. Not that it was terrible, but it was bland.
The problem wasn't unique to this restaurant. Venezuelans who live in the cities don't seem to have a palate for anything spicy. Throughout the cities I'd been in, the restaurant food tended to be uniformly bland. Although in the country they understand how to use spices, salt and pepper seemed to be it in the city.
The dullness of the cuisine always struck me as odd, considering the close ties between Venezuela and Italy. Not that Italians like hot food, but they do like seasoning. A lot of Venezuelans, especially in Puerto La Cruz, are of Italian descent.
I had to admit, however, that the food had vaguely Italian origins, and filled the pit that passed for my stomach.
The atmosphere was not great either. Again, it wasn’t terrible, just a boring second-rate place.
Clearly, most people knew this place wasn't all it could be as, except for me, the restaurant was empty of customers. Of course, Venezuelans prefer to eat late, and it was still early, but there should have been a few people having a drink and nibbles.
Instead, I sat alone at a table in a room that was empty except for the waiter who doubled as a bartender. Ostensibly, a cook, or what passed for one, lurked, bored out his skull in the kitchen. I wondered if the place had changed hands in the last few months.
I did enjoy the wine. The stout waiter, resplendent in his stained white apron, had recommended a Chilean red. I'm always happy to make new friends and this was a merlot that I didn't know. I found it nice and decided I would be certain to invite it to dine with me again.
So, despite the food, I was able to make a fitting toast to my late friend, who must have eaten here a few cooks back, or had drunk a few bottles of the wine while waiting for his dinner. Or perhaps he had dined with pleasant company that obscured the dullness of the food. I was willing to make excuses for him, at least this time.
When I paid my bill, I complimented the tired-looking waiter, enjoying the look of surprise that crossed his face and blossomed into a large smile when I handed him a good tip. I couldn't blame the meal on him, and his wine choice deserved a reward.
I walked to the door feeling more alive than when I'd come in. I found myself wondering what lay in wait in the street outside. Perhaps the idea of an evening's intrigue gave what would otherwise be an empty evening a hint of promise.
The night was warm and young. In an odd way, being tailed by someone lurking in the shadows made the city seem less lonely. And what fun would life be without its interesting twists and turns and general uncertainties? I know they give me a lot to look forward to.
I looked up and down the street outside the restaurant, expecting to see a shadowy figure. But the street had emptied. It had gotten dark quickly, and shadows played dancing games with the headlights of the occasional car that passed down the street, but the pedestrians, all of them, had all gone away with the light.
A sense of disappointment melted my good mood. Anyone following me now would have a rough time trying to be inconspicuous. They could dart in and out of the shadows and I wouldn't be able to make out who they were or get a clear picture of them, but it would be hard to hide the fact that they were following me.
That eliminated any chance I had of setting a trap, luring them close and then confronting him. I have a rather strong fantasizing streak that enjoys making me into a superhero, where I right the wrongs of the world without even bruising my humility.
The problem is that I am not comfortable in cities. My turf is rolling decks, not sidewalks, and I know little or nothing about stalking people or being stalked. So this was all irrelevant. I didn't see any sign of him.
It dawned on me that he had probably realized that I would be able to spot him and had given up on the idea. Or maybe watching me go into a restaurant made him think of food for himself, realize that he was hungry.
All these foolish things went through my head as I walked down the deserted street. In the back of my head, a little voice reminded me that I better hope he wasn't still following me because otherwise, he was good enough at this to make himself nearly invisible.
As a rule (of thumb, that is. I tend to shy away from hard and fast rules) I prefer to be followed by people who remain at least moderately visible. That way I can preserve the fragile illusion that I might be a match for the situation. Obvious superiority on the other side unnerves me.
The twilight made the streets shadowy; even sinister, if you let your mind dwell on it. The sound of my own footsteps echoed against the concrete walls of the buildings. My mind seemed to be dwelling on it. I couldn't shake the feeling of being followed and it wasn't nearly so much fun now as it had been when I knew for certain I was being followed. Go figure.
A few blocks further down the street, I stopped in the doorway of a bar. I can't say why I stopped. This bar had nothing in particular to recommend it, except that I could hear Otis Redding's "Dock of The Bay" coming from the sound system, which meant that it wasn't a disco bar, and it was actually Otis singing, which meant it wasn't a karaoke bar. That gave it two points in its favor.
"It's a nice place. Why don't we go in?" a voice said. I turned and finally saw the figure in the shadows.
I didn't have a clear view of him, but his posture, his thinness and the shadowy outline of a suit told me that it was the man who had been following me. "Let me buy you a drink," he said.
Even though his presence was unsettling, I took comfort in the friendly sound of his voice. It had a calming effect. So did the idea of having a drink. Going inside and having a free drink seemed a better idea than standing around dark streets waiting for something bad to happen.
It might not be any safer inside, but certainly, it would be more comfortable.
"I'd appreciate that," I told him. "Being followed is thirsty work."
He didn't respond to my witty retort. Rather than seem cowardly, I did the stupid thing; I turned my back to him and walked in through the tacky entrance, trying not to touch anything. It wasn't that the bar felt dirty in the least, but there is an aesthetic sliminess to red-flocked walls that I find repulsive.
He followed me in.
Here I had been wondering why anyone would want to follow me. Now, regardless of what else happened, I might find out.
# # #
My eyes adjusted to the dimness slowly as I stumbled in and headed for a table. I could see that the bar wasn't crowded. Even better, there was no gang of thugs waiting for my shadow to herd me into their midst so they could beat me senseless.
It was just a club where a few people, mostly men, sat at the bar and a few more had taken seats scattered around the various tables, drinking seriously and chatting less seriously. Mostly they looked to be working people, probably middle-class office drones and some laborers who dwelt further on down the social scale.
As I walked back into the room, passing the bar, I noted that it was well stocked. If nothing else, I could insist that my shadow buy me a good scotch.
"Let's grab a booth," the man behind me said as Otis finished whistling the last verse and the jukebox switched over to a Rolling Stone's tune I hadn't heard in years: "Get Off My Cloud."
Almost involuntarily, my body moved with the music as I went to sit at a booth, sliding in across the plastic seat and watching him move in on the other side to sit across from me. My eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness (and smoke. What would a bar be without smoke? Besides pleasant, I mean?).
I started actually seeing some details. He was a tall and thin man—what you
might call angular, even awkward looking. I put him in his early forties and with a rather unremarkable appearance. The suit that I had noticed earlier turned out to be of brown corduroy.
I thought it an odd choice for the tropics, and it might have been a nice suit once, but now it was a bit worn, giving him a shabby, down-at-the-heels look. He had light-brown hair and a well-groomed brown mustache; his thin hair had retreated to the far edges of his head. The overall look made me think of an actor made up to play the part of a British expat. Either that or he had grown up reading far too much W. Somerset Maugham and yet hadn't caught onto the elegance that role requires. Maugham was a dapper dude, after all.
He signaled to a waitress. She gave him a glance that told me she knew him, and then came over, smiling. Obviously, he was a regular and a good tipper. He ordered a martini, then looked at me, raising an eyebrow.
I ordered a single-malt scotch, neat. When he didn't blink, I upped it to a double. He nodded at me with a pleased smile, as if we shared a secret. As the waitress left, he crossed his hands on the table.
"I am quite pleased to meet you under these pleasant circumstances, Billings," he said, giving free rein to a thick British accent. He held out a large, thin hand and I shook it. "Very pleased, actually."
As I shook his hand, I tried to hide my surprise that he knew my name. I probably didn't do it well. This is just one of the many reasons I don't play poker, or at least why I don't win when I do play.
You heading out my way as you did today saved me the effort of looking all over this dreadful town for you. I find hunting people down a boring task, don't you?"
"I'm a beginner," I said. "I'll have to let you know later."
He smiled. "Well, things certainly have worked out conveniently enough for me this evening. It's a shame life is not always so obliging."